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Tag: Notes

It goes something like this. After worst-writing for a few hours, in a rush, I got around to getting some chores done. The chores are thus: buy fresh meat and wine for the evening. Pick some veggies for the pan. Dress the kitchen properly so she’s prepared for my cooking. Start drinking with a cold beer after three. But first, on this odd day, I had to run to the Turkish supermarket because I forget fresh coriander during my shopping spree the day before. I have to make a quick run (before I start drinking). My 1992 Alfa Romeo Spider is getting up in years. So too is the work of drunk Italians. Each time I have to pick up a part that has fallen off, listen to her squeak as we drive around or worry about what else can go broke, I think of the Italian workers and all the wine they were drinking while assembling her. Nomatter. I get in her, and, as usual, push down on the clutch. It’s a habit, you know. It’s the first thing I do whenever I get in the Italian queen. Out of habit sometimes I do the same thing when entering an automatic vehicle. My Alfa has a funky clutch to begin with. Something about Italians and their parts. Had the same issue with my Italian motorcycle oh so many years ago. Italian clutches never feel the same. One day it feels light, the next heavy. Another day it feels marshmellowie and the next it feels like a hangover. But this day, this late morning, it felt of nothing. Pure and unadulterated nothing. Like an automatic car. No resistance whatsoever for my left foot. So I pop the hood, have a look at the hydraulic fluid reservoir, and, as expected, it’s butt empty. Oh. Looks like tonights meal is gonna have to go without fresh coriander. But what do I do with my Alfa? I call my shop and order a tow. He shows up immediately. We have a short conversation about politics and worst-writing and then he hooks up my Alfa to his tow. I warn him to be careful regarding the low hanging oil pan of the motor. He’s extra cautious. Then he gives me a receipt for my car and pulls away, Alfa in tow. I wave goodbye and then look down at a new oil spot. She’s giving me a message? Yes, she is. Rant on. -t

Had a dream the other night. I think. Even though I can’t draw worth a hoot, my best shot at an image of the dream is above. This dream started in the middle of a journey that begins at a red x (bottom left corner of the page). I think the journey was to the Red Sea to go scuba diving. But wait. The dream didn’t start there exactly. It actually started in Cairo. The red x is somewhere between Cairo International Airport and our final destination which is the resort region of Marsa Alam. I just didn’t feel the need to doodle that part. Nomatter. The trip was a total mess. Our plane was re-routed to Cairo International where we had to disembark and subsequently be “processed” for entry. Then we waited for hours in a luxurious bar where I got drunk out of my mind on “special” Egyptian schnapps. Eventually we boarded another airplane but instead of taking us to Marsa Alam airport it landed somewhere in the middle of the desert. We then boarded busses for the remaining part of the trip. There were no roads, no civilisation and it never got dark–even though we drove for a few days. The bus was crowded but comfortable. Everyone sat in their seats and some even used the ventilation system to blow dry their hair. A few children entertained the back of the bus with German songs from Scorpions and The Dead Trousers. Not unlike the luxurious bar at Cairo airport, the schnapps flowed and flowed. But then our tour bus was captured by Mexicans. So it’s here where the doodle kinda begins, i.e. the red x. Which brings me to the following question(s): captured by Mexicans in Egypt? How can that be? Oh yeah. It might have something to do with me not being one hundred percent white but also being a white-looking American and travelling through Arab Spring countries in order to get my kicks at twenty-five meters with colourful fish. Or. Prior to going to sleep that night I got kind of upset reading all the news about how Egyptian forces bombed a bus full of tourists because they obviously mistook it for being a bus full revolutionaries–or the like. We are living in those/these times, eh, dear worst-reader? Nomatter. The dream struck me and the morning after I felt compelled to codify it. What really sticks out in my conscious mind–as opposed to my dream mind–is that our Mexican captures trekked us along a desert road with a few stops in-between, as illustrated in the image (doodle) above. Huge tents were available to shade us from the sun. Oddly, being in a desert n’all, there was no need for water or suntan oil. The only thing available were books at various rest/pause stops. This is the part of the dream that confused me so. In the middle of a desert a group of people walk along a road (or was it a pathway?) and our only sustenance was books. The books had Mexican guards, though, and I don’t know why. Where were the Egyptians? Then, after a cup of earl grey, I dabbled in the following pseudo conclusion(s). I’m not sure what my other half is. It is safe to say that biological-daddy wasn’t white and he most certainly never read a thing to me. But what was he? He wasn’t black, he wasn’t asian and he most certainly wasn’t European–although he spoke German. He spoke German because he was stationed in Germany for most of his military career starting in the mid-50s thereby bringing numerous booty children to the world, aka Besatzungskinder. Yours truly being the second one of approximately four or five, etc. But. Again. Nomatter. I’m drifting. The thing is, I romanticise sometimes, even find myself hoping, that my other half is Indian. Maybe I’m a Sioux or a Mohawk or even a Choptank. But I could also be Mexican or Puerto Rican. Not that that is less than being half Indian. It’s just that I think, if I were on a scuba trip to the Red Sea, to read books, and read the corals, and wonder at deserts and desserts (that I’m not supposed to eat), I would never get captured by a bunch of Mohawks. Or? So I got up the other morning and was compelled to try and capture the dream, what it means. That’s all.

Is it possible for a white man to be traumatized by the civil rights movement of the black man? Or was the movement by someone else who only wanted to profit from movement? How a movement can be misunderstood.

Idea for… (?)

LOP

Character expresses his indignation for the results of the civil rights movement. He is traumatized by race. The race.

Bacteriophage. A virus that attacks bacteria. Not a profitable treatment, hence not used or researched! Soviet Union and Georgia used this the most. Most used as alternative to antibiotics.

Trying to fathom, understand any reason behind the supression of sexuality. What is the opposite of sex? Murder? If not, why not? The opposite of sex cannot be murder because death (and the act of killing) is not human instinct. Survival is a human instinct and when that is threatened the result is murder. Murder doesn’t logically equate with survival. Or?

As the days pass with no results of my efforts (which kinda makes them something other than efforts) the pain increases. Of course, everyone would argue that my efforst are nothing. But I think the last two stories I submitted are worth a great deal. Certainly they represent a high-point of my work up to all this nothingness. Yet the days pass and I type nothing more and more–except a silly blog past here and there. Nothing else matters. (Thank you Sam.)

Always act so that you can will the maxim or determining principle of your action to become universal law; act so that you can will that everybody shall follow the principle of your action. -Kant

Finding those who say it better. There are so many. Why is it that I must be the one amongst the many, the crowd who, if required, stands out only because he can achieve nothing?

America touts itself as the land of the free, but the number one freedom that you and I have is the freedom to enter into a subservient role in the workplace. Once you exercise this freedom you’ve lost all control over what you do, what is produced, and how it is produced. And in the end, the product doesn’t belong to you. The only way you can afford bosses and jobs is if you don’t care about making a living. Which leads to the second freedom. The freedom to starve. -Tom Morello, Rage Against The Machine.